


Old Wounds, New Life

by Luneykitty



Series: Teaching A Street Rat New Tricks [1]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Eventual OT6, Gang fight, M/M, Michael From the Streets AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 15:10:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1749062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luneykitty/pseuds/Luneykitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The reason Michael kept coming back to these losers of his was because the last time he'd left someone he cared about to their own devices it...hadn't gone well. It hadn't gone well at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Wounds, New Life

**Author's Note:**

> Street!Michael AU started by Yetiokay, populated by many. This is my attempt at jumping on the band wagon, meshing a few ideas I saw people tossing around on tumblr. My first crack at AH fiction, but not my first fanfic. 
> 
> Warning: Violence, swearing, gang life and implied death. 
> 
> Hope you guys like it.

Michael sat in the tattoo parlors big chair, waiting for the chick who was going to fix him up today to get back into his little section of the place. She'd run over a little on her last client and said she'd be in as soon as she could, probably 10 minutes tops. It was cool with him because fuck it he'd already made the appointment and chosen the tatt and it wasn't going to take too long once she started. He wouldn't start to get antsy unless the guys got home early or something and found him missing. It had been a bitch and a half just getting to this point without them knowing and it had cost him selling the last of the weed he'd snuck from Jersey to be able to afford it without stealing from someone, but he figured it was the lesser of the evils he wasn't supposed to be doing in Austin. 

The free time allowed him to contemplate the situation he'd gotten into, which wasn't bad, it was probably the best set of recent memories he'd had in years that wasn't chemically induced. There were just some bitter edges to this life, stupid little things that haunted the Texas sun with the shadows of his Jersey life. 

He wasn't going to admit it to the others and especially not Ray, but the main reason Michael had ever agreed to their crazy plans of taking him with them all the way to fucking Texas hadn't been to escape Jersey. It hadn't even been because of all the free shit they'd promised him in return for letting them help him (which made no sense in his opinion). 

Sure, that was a big part of it, a real big fucking hook to dangle in front of his hungry dumbass self, he wouldn't ever deny that free food and good company wasn't a draw, just that his real reasons were too fucked up to admit to any of the guys. They already looked at him like he was a kicked puppy whenever he ate too much and ended up puking until his stomach wasn't distended painfully only to come back to the table for the next meal like he couldn't still taste bile at the back of his throat. 

No, the reason he kept coming back to these losers of his was because the last time he'd left someone he cared about to their own devices it...hadn't gone well. It hadn't gone well at all. 

Even the memories of it made Michael wince to this day, his left side twinging a few ribs up from the bottom of his ribcage. Stupid motherfucker didn't even know how to stab someone to make it count. The damn knife had gone up and skittered over bone, lodging in like some fucking metal splinter because Michael had been lunging forward when the guy had swung it home like he'd meant to punch it through Michael's body and out through his right armpit. 

The redhead started rubbing the spot and closed his eyes, the phantom pain of the old injury only hurting a little compared to the rest of the memory of the incident. While he sat in the chair he allowed himself to mull over the painful happenings of his life in relative peace, remembering the panic and the rain, the many hands grabbing and the bodies in the way of everything. 

In the way of his body, lying on the ground...

It had to have been fucking raining when it happened too, like some corny dramatic scene from some dumb fucking movie. Pouring buckets in-between the buildings that encompassed his entire scope of the world, the graffiti marking territories and street signs reading limits on where you could go and what you could do. 

Michael had been walking with this kid in the crew who would turn out to look so much like Ray it hurt; scrawny and dorky as fuck, but with an easy smile and sly humor. He'd been showing him the good times and fine tuning how to read people and places. 

He liked the kid; Rex was his godawful street name and he was scrappy in his own way but unfortunately not much more to him than that. Michael had decided to take care of him the moment they'd been introduced because the kid's innocence was just too damn alluring, drawing him in like a moth to a flame. He protected him from the pimps and the bad drug dealers, the ones that fed you too much for too little at first and then jacked up the price beyond the norm just 'cause you were too strung out to find a better one. 

They got high together, drunk together, and even got into a few scraps with rival punk bitches together. It was going good and the kid (he'd never taken a liking to his street name) was shaping up to be an alright sorta gutter trash, moving up the ranks in his sly way, banked by having Michael in his back pocket. 

It was for some unfortunate twist of fate, some stupid God up in heaven flipping them the bird or maybe a devil in hell hawking a loogie in their direction, that while walking down the street on their own turf they were jumped. 

The fight had gone bad from the start, the other guys outnumbering them by too many to two. Michael had rushed in swinging, punching the daylights out of one and hooking an elbow into another. He took his own punches and kicks without feeling them, the infamous rage and adrenaline that overcame him in a fight kicking in to the point he wouldn't feel a broken arm until he noticed his fingers wouldn't curl into a fist anymore. 

He had left the kid on his own, figuring he was street enough by now and god there were just too many for Michael to take out on his own anyway. It was when he had whipped around from kicking at someone's junk that he saw what at first his eyes couldn't register in the dark and the rain. 

They'd been distracting Michael, keeping his focus on a few while the rest went after his boy. Now they had the kid held between two of them, his face beat the fuck up and shoulders shaking. In front of him was some random goon, not even the boss of these dickwads, holding a cinder block up with adrenaline fueled strength. 

As the block came down Michael lunged, ignoring the razor prick that pulled at the muscles of his sides and sent a flashfire of pain up his spine, only registering that he'd been stabbed and moving on. The connection of block to skull was a sick crunch and the kid went down, the two holding him dropping him with a jeer and a kick, leaving him on the ground. Michael broke from the group that had been on him, the fighting having stopped entirely to play audience to the brutal execution. 

As he pushed and shoved through the scramble of retreating bodies, earning a hard shove or two in return, Michael couldn't care less. His only focus was on getting to the kid. When he got to the three who'd done it he snarled, balling his fists and baring his teeth like an animal. 

“Get the fuck out of my way!” He screamed it at them, spittle meeting rain and vision narrowing in anger and what was probably blood loss. When they only smirked at him and made as if to advance on him, he lost what semblance of control he'd had.

Reaching up with his right hand, Michael gripped the handle of the knife imbedded in his side and pulled. If he hadn't been filled with such red zone anger and been willing to commit so much uninhibited violence, he might not have had the balls to grind the blade back out of his body by brute strength. As it was it came loose with the satisfaction of a bullet sliding home in the chamber and he ran at the attackers with a roar, his own blood shining wetly along the blade. 

The only thing that saved Michael from being grabbed by the rest and having his throat slit was the sound of approaching sirens at that moment. 

By the time he made it to the kid's body, the rest had scattered like rats from a sinking ship. 

Michael crouched down over his fallen friend, the knife gripped tightly while he used his free hand to tilt the other boy's face towards him. What he saw was blood dripping from everywhere, out of his ears and down his neck, dribbling from nose and mouth and from both eyes. The rain was coming down so hard that the blood couldn't dry and smear, but he was bleeding so bad the red lines couldn't be broken either. His soft brown eyes were blown wide in panic and rolling, breaths gasping in wet rattles. 

There was no hope for him. 

Michael knew it the moment he saw the state he was in, knew it when he started shaking his head and standing up. The kid (Rex goddamn Rex) reached out a hand, aimless but seeking. His eyes were on Michael but he couldn't control where his hand went. The fingers flexed, the arm shook in a wretched spasm and Michael turned his back and ran. 

He left his friend in the street, to die alone in a gutter with no one but armed police for company. 

“Hey, sorry that you had to wait, I didn't think it would go over by that long.” 

Michael's eyes flew open and he tensed on instinct, too much of the past flowing through his mind. He let out a breath and relaxed forcefully; he'd gotten tatts before and this one was gunna be no biggie. He'd been wanting to get it somewhere on his body ever since he adopted Ray into that place in his heart the kid used to occupy. He was going to be a better person, to the others and to Ray, and this was going to symbolize it. 

“It's cool, I understand. I've been put on hold for fucking hours before.” Michael responded cooly, taking the defense of conversation over mulling over his shitty past and his shitty past self. He'd never abandon Ray like that so help him god, even if he had to take two knives to the ribs. 

“So you want it on your side, covering a scar?” He nodded and pulled up his shirt, pointing. She leaned in and lightly touched the area, pierced brow coming up as she felt along the ridge of thick scar tissue. 

“I can cover it with ink, but the tissue might not take it as well, and it won't take away the texture of it.” She informed him, for the second or third time since he'd begun talking with her about it. He scowled at the repeated attempts to convince him to get it somewhere else, not giving a shit about company policy and customer service. He wanted the Achievement Hunter logo to cover his scar, he had her money, she should fucking take it and do it already. 

“Alright, I'm going to go make the trace ready. Find a comfortable spot where your shirt won't fall back down and we'll get started as soon as I'm back.” She smiled briefly at him and then turned to the copy of the design he wanted, more intent on getting the feel of the piece and etching out her plan of attack internally as she walked away. 

Michael sighed a little and relaxed as best he could, content with her distraction. He didn't much like talking and if she was that serious about her work, all the better. 

He rubbed at the scar with the pad of his thumb, promising himself that he was starting a over, with his new crew. A crew that was for life and it didn't even require a gun. 

He closed his eyes and smiled a little to himself, letting his hand drop away from the old wound to give the tattoo artist room for his new life.

**Author's Note:**

> Ahhhhh, it feels so good to stretch my writing fingers. This one was satisfying to write and I don't feel quite so rusty anymore! Once again, I hope you enjoyed this.


End file.
